


Cry Eureka No More

by sevensyllables



Series: It Wouldn't Be Make Believe If You Believed In Me [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Established Relationship, Fallout Kink Meme, Goodbye Sex, M/M, Post-NCR ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensyllables/pseuds/sevensyllables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade fought for the NCR at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, and is now being hunted down for his Enclave ties as repayment. The Courier catches up with him in the Remnants Bunker before he can flee Nevada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Eureka No More

**Author's Note:**

> Features the same Courier as my other kink meme fill [_Dum Spiro Spero_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4942900), but it isn't necessary to have read that one to read this fic, although it will give some context to the relationship Arcade and the Courier already have.

_Stupid_ , Arcade thought as he overturned yet another empty crate in the Enclave Remnants Bunker. _Stupid, stupid, foolish idealistic nonsense._ He flung back the doors on three lockers in a row, the clanging echoing viciously off the metal walls around him. Torn Pre-War clothes, two sealed cans of food—Pork ‘N Beans at that—and many decades worth of dust were the sum total of that search. The gentle hum of the force fields encasing the remaining suits of power armor seemed to mock him.

Arcade pressed his palms against his forehead and looked wildly around the room. There had been nothing of note in the command center, no electronic components that would be of the slightest use to him in repairing or recharging either his plasma pistol or his father’s power armor while on the run. There was little chance that there was anything of worth inside the grounded Vertibird as it hadn’t been designed for storage, but he had run out of any other options.

The door on the dropship creaked open slowly and Arcade squinted through the gloom. He had just reached down to check a panel beneath one row of seats when he heard the _click-whoosh_ of the main bunker door opening down the hallway. _Stupid!_ Arcade cursed himself again, pounding a fist on the button to close the Vertibird’s door, vainly willing the century-old hydraulics to work more quietly. He shuffled as far aft as he could, plastering himself against the back wall of the Vertibird. He crouched there, plasma pistol pointed shakily at the closed doors, heartbeat hammering in his ears. He thought he’d have more time; he thought he’d at least be able to flee Nevada before anyone NCR caught up to him.

The door to the Vertibird clicked and slowly rose. Arcade swallowed roughly, just beginning to squeeze the trigger as a man stepped up to the door—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Doc!” The Courier shouted, ducking and throwing up his arms, 9mm in his right hand. “It’s me!”

“It’s me,” the Courier repeated more softly as Arcade tossed his plasma pistol on the seat he had wedged himself behind and slid down, hands still shaking, breath rattling. “Okay?” the Courier asked, his eyebrows raised in concern as he tucked away his pistol and climbed into the Vertibird.

“Sure,” Arcade croaked, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“What are you doing here?” the Courier asked as he crouched down, gently taking Arcade by the elbow and running his thumb against the red-stained material of Arcade’s lab coat.

Arcade smiled and lifted one hand. “Welcome to the illustrious life of the Enclave fugitive. I came here to scavenge anything I could find—energy cells, charge packs. Not likely to be a lot of people out there in the Wastes willing to trade me ammunition, now. Well, not a lot of people in NCR territory, anyway.” He frowned at the Courier. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“The NCR’s already sent out a couple dozen rangers looking for you and the other Remnants,” the Courier answered quietly. “When they wanted to send someone out here to the Bunker I volunteered; told ‘em if anyone could bring you in it’d be me.”

Despite the warm tone of the Courier’s words, Arcade felt like he’d been dunked in ice water. His eyes flicked to where he had dropped his pistol on the dropship seat, just out of reach past the Courier—who looked stricken.

The Courier rocked back on his heels. “I came here to _help_ you, Arcade, not drag you back to the fuckin’ Dam.” The Courier stood quickly and unholstered his 9mm, face growing even stormier when Arcade’s eyes widened incrementally at the sight of the Courier’s favorite gun. He set the pistol down next to Arcade’s own on the seat and turned on his heel, leather boots thudding on the metal floor as he stalked to the forward of the Vertibird. He sat heavily in the copilot’s chair, sending a new cloud of dust into the stale air.

Arcade stood slowly, heart heavy as he walked over to join the Courier. If he had any decency, he would simply apologize for doubting him and send the Courier directly back to the Strip. The man had risen from the dead and shed more than his share of his own blood to drive the Legion out of New Vegas and reestablish some semblance of justice and stability in the region, even if it was on the NCR’s behalf. He didn’t deserve to shed any more, especially not in the defense of the dubious honor of the Gannon name. But, as he gingerly approached the cockpit, Arcade knew that he couldn’t just let him go, wouldn’t try nearly hard enough to dissuade the Courier from whatever half-cocked plan he already had in mind.

The Courier glanced at him sideways, mouth tight and unhappy, as Arcade slipped into the pilot’s seat. The Courier reached out and pressed a few dim buttons on the control panel, tapped idly on a gauge. “This thing even work?” he said, more to himself than to Arcade, using his combat knife to pry open an access panel on the wall beside him.

Arcade glanced at the half-lit display; more than a couple of the buttons blinked at him sadly. “I wouldn’t know,” he answered. “It doesn’t matter; I couldn’t fly it out of here anyway.”

“Hmm,” the Courier said simply, and whether that was meant as a response to Arcade or to the panel before him, Arcade couldn’t be sure. The Courier poked around at the tangle of wires and connections, pushing a cluster aside to look at…something. Arcade understood the inner workings of a person just fine, but machines weren’t exactly his forte.

“Corroded,” the Courier pronounced. “More ‘n half of these connections are dead. Even if we assumed the engine worked—which I doubt sincerely—wouldn’t do much good to get in the air only to have your controls give out.” He raised his voice pointedly, still examining the wires, “When you have two things working together like that, depending on each other…Well, let’s just say they can’t succeed if they aren’t both fully committed.”

Arcade grimaced; clumsy though the comparison was, he had a distinct suspicion that the Courier was no longer talking about the broad points of Vertibird mechanics. “I’m sorry,” Arcade sighed. The Courier turned his head slightly in Arcade’s direction, as if he was only halfway decided on making eye contact. “I shouldn’t have assumed you were here because of the NCR.” _Just send him back to the 38_ , the less selfish part of Arcade insisted. _Don’t bother to explain your reasoning, just send him back_.

But the Courier was looking at him full on now, desire to understand and willingness to forgive clear alongside hurt on his face. “Once I learned President Kimball had ordered all known Enclave associates to be hunted down,” Arcade shook his head, thoughts jumbled. “I thought that moment at the visitor center at the Dam—I thought I had already seen you for the last time. I thought that was the last time I would see any of our friends again. So for you to show up here, with a gun in your hand…You’ve never done wrong by me in the past. I know that. And I’m not proud of the assumption, but,” Arcade trailed off.

The Courier nodded his bowed head begrudgingly. “But present events aren’t really encouraging a whole lotta confidence in your allies.”

“Right,” Arcade agreed lamely, heart thumping.

The Courier let his head drop back against the worn headrest, dirty cowboy hat tipping over the edge and flopping to the floor, and sighed. “Not that it’ll make you feel any better, but I’m sorry, too.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, through his dirt-flecked hair. “This in’t really what I had in mind for New Vegas’ big victory over the Legion.”

“It wasn’t New Vegas’ victory over the Legion,” Arcade said. The Courier swiveled his head to meet Arcade’s eyes curiously. “It was the New California Republic’s.”

The Courier’s speculative frown was colored yellow and grey in the dim, dusty light. “Until now I didn’t appreciate that there would be a difference,” he admitted. “Guess I shoulda spent more time listening to you when I had the chance.”

Arcade shook his head ruefully. “Oh, I think you listened to me prattle on more than enough. Sarcasm and lingering optimism about things past are what have made me the man I am today, after all.”

“I like the man you are today,” the Courier said quietly.

“Don’t let General Oliver hear you say that,” Arcade joked, trying to deflect from the moment. This was new territory, and unfortunately timed at that. They had never tried to define their relationship in words before now.

“I’m serious, Doc,” the Courier insisted, leaning forward in the co-pilot’s chair. “You know I am.”

Arcade swallowed heavily. He hadn’t intended to allow their months-long dalliance to be brought to the forefront of the conversation. Arcade had no sure future but the empty road before him and the threat of NCR pursuit behind, while the Courier still had seemingly limitless potential for the good he could do New Vegas, even under the new regime. It wasn’t fair to either of them to do this now, lingering on memories of warm embraces and teasing murmurs, a time that seemed so far away, although it had been the routine a mere week ago, just on the other side of the Battle of the Dam. “Of course I know,” he said softly.

“You never let me give up on anybody we might be able to help. You fought— _You,_ ” the Courier pointed roughly at Arcade. “A Followers doctor, put on some power armor and picked up the big guns to fight the Legion when the time came, same as any NCR ranger.”

“Except that I’m not any NCR ranger, or even any Followers doctor,” Arcade replied with a mirthless grin. “I’m Enclave.”

The Courier’s eyes blazed with the same stalwart conviction that had allowed him to face down any number of Fiends, Deathclaws, Legionaries. “Anyone who believes that’s all you are doesn’t deserve to know you, Doc.” And with that, he leaned across the aisle and grasped the lapel of Arcade’s lab coat. He raised his eyebrows silently, seeking permission, and with only the weakest of protests in mind, Arcade leaned across to give it.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, let alone a joyous one. There was no scenario where Arcade and the Courier left this bunker hand-in-hand, headed back for their shared room in the Lucky 38. This kiss was regret, trust placed in those who hadn’t returned it. This kiss was hope for a future that dealt a fair hand, a present that couldn’t manage even half that. Nevertheless, Arcade chose to allow himself just this moment to forget, to live in a reality where he hadn’t been so blindly idealistic to believe he could play the big hero, a reality where he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for a two-headed bear.

The Courier groaned into the kiss, stubble scraping against Arcade’s jaw. He rose from his seat to settle himself half on the arm of Arcade’s chair, half on his lap. He ran his hands through Arcade’s hair, fingers grasping at the base of his head. It was as if they couldn’t be close enough for his liking. Arcade scratched his nails down the back of the Courier’s shirt; the Courier shivered at the sensation, teasing through the worn cotton.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging the hem of Arcade’s shirt out of his pants.

Arcade smiled tightly and pulled the Courier’s faded t-shirt off him. The Courier’s dark chest was a familiar crisscross of scars, an encyclopedia of hastily planned attacks and adventures gone horribly right. Some of them he knew, had stitched: here was a boiling afternoon at the Quarry Junction, a chilly night in the pines above Jacobstown, even that fateful delay in Vault 22, an age away now. In the back of his mind, Arcade had always assumed he would hear the story of every scar someday, but it seemed the days had run out. He splayed his hands across the taut muscles, trying to commit the feel to mind, memorizing the resilient heartbeat beneath. He kissed his way up the Courier’s chest to his neck, his jaw, before meeting his lips deeply. Here was a man who took an uncertain future and a murky past and wielded them as weapons, armor. Arcade’s head felt clouded as he shrugged out of his lab coat, helped the Courier slip the buttons from his shirt with clumsy fingers.

The Courier had both their flies open shortly, pants pushed down but not off, boots and shoes stubbornly holding them in place. They grasped at each other’s cocks one-handed, both unwilling to untangle from the other where they were crammed against each other in the Vertibird’s pilot seat, Arcade clinging to the back of the Courier’s neck with his other hand as though he would never let go. He touched the Courier recklessly, teasing his foreskin, smearing pre-cum on both their stomachs. The Courier groaned into Arcade’s mouth, panting through their kisses; he wouldn’t last long, never did when he went into it upset. Arcade dropped both hands to the Courier’s cock, reaching down to fondle his balls, tease at his perineum. Arcade didn’t torture himself with thoughts of all the other pleasures they might have shared if they’d had the time, the safety, just lost himself in the feel of the Courier’s body.

Arcade’s touch was light but insistent, never giving the Courier time to breathe between the caresses of his fingers, the twist of his hands. The Courier ground against Arcade’s hip, focus clearly broken as his own hand started and stopped on Arcade’s cock. Soon, the Courier moaned into Arcade’s neck, too overcome to even kiss him. Arcade’s eyes were pressed shut as the Courier came; he would have to imagine how debauched the Courier looked in this moment, infer just how overwhelmed he was from the twinges of his spent cock, the sharp intake of his heavy breaths. He dropped his head heavily onto the Courier’s heaving shoulder. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and be forced to remember where and who he was, whom he was relegated to being.

Arcade had spent his entire life wondering if his father would have been proud of the man his son had become, and now, on the run from the NCR and clutched in the grasp of their decorated hero, slick with pleasure in the pilot seat of an abandoned Vertibird in an ancient Enclave bunker, he feared he knew the answer.

“Doc,” the Courier whispered a moment later, both hands cupping Arcade’s face. “Hey,” he said, voice thick with both his release and his concern. “Hey, hey, Arcade, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re alright. Hey, look at me, Doc.”

Arcade blinked his eyes open reluctantly. The Courier was covered in sweat and his own mess, short hair in disarray. “Hey,” he repeated, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against Arcade’s jaw. “Do you want to stop?”

Arcade’s hardness hung sadly beside the Courier’s own softening length. No, Arcade didn’t want him to stop, but he also didn’t want this to end. Didn’t want to have to leave this bunker, New Vegas, the Followers, their friends, and the Courier behind.

“Arcade,” the Courier murmured carefully. “Doc?”

Arcade met the Courier’s eyes. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

The Courier searched his eyes for a moment before he nodded. He pressed a quick kiss to Arcade’s temple, then his mouth before he cradled his head with one hand and ran the other over his shoulders and gently down his back. “You’re the best person I know,” the Courier whispered into the crook of Arcade’s jaw, and Arcade shuddered. “The best fucking person.”

The Courier bent his head down to trail kisses across his clavicle, over his sternum, down to his navel. He looked up at Arcade, contorted a bit awkwardly given that his legs were still trapped in his pants by his boots and he was still partially resting on Arcade’s lap. His eyes were absolutely serious when he said, “You’re worth more than the entire NCR combined.” And in that moment, Arcade nearly believed it.

He groaned as the Courier wrapped his mouth around his length, unable to keep one hand from pulling at the Courier’s already wild hair. The Courier sucked at the tip, tongue sliding over the slit before he pulled off suddenly. “Here, wait,” he said as he stood and made to pull Arcade up out of the pilot’s seat. Despite the Courier’s considerable edge in sheer muscle mass, Arcade was noticeably taller than the Courier; therefore, he chose to stand with a genuine laugh instead of allowing the Courier to pull a muscle trying to lift him bodily from the pilot’s seat, like he had done once before, months ago one slightly drunken night on the Strip. The Courier flashed Arcade an easy grin, clearly also recalling the mishap, and backed him up to perch on the sloped center of the Vertibird’s control panel. “There we go,” the Courier murmured, and he sank to his knees in front of Arcade, free to kneel without having to contend with the seats.

Arcade slumped back on his elbows, marveling at the sight of the Courier below him. He let his head drop back against the dashboard, shoulders mashed against switches that hadn’t worked in years. The Courier hollowed his cheeks around Arcade and for a second he could have sworn that this rusted Vertibird could fly after all. The Courier alternated broad licking strokes from the base to the head, to sucking devastating kisses into Arcade’s hips, his inner thighs. His hands were never still, cupping beneath Arcade to knead at his ass, running them up and down his quivering legs, teasing at his straining length. A few more bobbing pulls and Arcade was spilling in the Courier’s mouth with a loud groan, boneless against the console. The Courier pressed a gentle kiss against Arcade’s hipbone, looking up at him through lidded eyes before he pulled himself up and reclined next to Arcade on the panel.

“Y’okay?” he asked quietly.

“I’ve certainly been worse,” Arcade admitted, and he was surprised to discover that it was true. Shocking what a mind-numbing orgasm can do to put in perspective feelings of crushing inexorability. He sat up with a grunt, the dull red impressions of keys itching against the skin of his lower back. The Courier brushed one hand tentatively against his side, any skin he could reach, as Arcade pulled up his pants and picked up his shirt.

The Courier’s hand skimmed up Arcade’s spine, the nervous tapping of his fingers against Arcade’s vertebrae the only thing belying his unease in the afterglow. “Don’t bother putting that on.”

Arcade paused in pulling a shirtsleeve right side out to look over at the Courier. He had pulled up his pants, but accomplished little else, still lying halfway on the console with his hands now folded on his bare chest, staring up at the Vertibird’s ceiling. None of his body language indicated that he was angling for a second round of festivities, such as they were, but Arcade dropped his shirt and lab coat next to him on the panel and lay back across the controls facing the Courier nonetheless.

The Courier smiled weakly and brushed his knuckles over Arcade’s chin, staring at Arcade’s eyes like he wasn’t quite there. He cleared his throat, “I am sorry I got you into this mess.” When Arcade made to protest, the Courier placed a steady hand on his chest. “No, it’s my fault for leading you to the Dam, for not thinking to secure you some sort ‘a promise or pardon. The NCR owes you for that victory. You and the Remnants threw back so many of the Legion, then scattered after the battle. No one’s standing around waving an Old World flag or talking about the true line of presidential succession, so I didn’t think there’d be a problem. But now you’re going to be hunted like you want anything other than what’s best for the people of New Vegas, like you didn’t fight for ‘em too. And I’m sorry.” The Courier sighed, “I don’t understand Oliver.”

“No, you don’t,” Arcade agreed, pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose. The Courier frowned at him, but didn’t argue. “You’re trying to ascribe him the motives and moralities of a person,” Arcade said, smoothing out the wrinkles in his lab coat on the dash, “rather than the rigid practicalities of a military organization. There isn’t room for anything as trite and simplistic as fairness when considering the next move an army should take.”

“But—”

“But, the memory of Daisy’s Vertibird is not going to fade from the NCR’s collective consciousness anytime soon. People talk and word spreads, and suddenly it’s possible, even likely, that the Enclave is making a big push into the Mojave.” Arcade readjusted his glasses and continued, “It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true. Even the slightest hint of a threat like that could have a major destabilizing effect on troops and civilians alike. And who knows,” he said, allowing his head to thunk against the keys beneath him. “Maybe we weren’t the only Enclave Remnants left, and then someone with bad intentions and worse capabilities lumbers onto the scene to pick up where the others had left off. That would mean our grand redemption scheme had been for nothing.”

“No,” the Courier said gravely. “It will never be nothing.”

Arcade simply looked at the Courier for a long moment, taking in the weariness of his eyes and the myriad scars on his arms and chest. This man had been through more in one short lifetime than whole populations of towns had seen. Through every deplorable act he witnessed and prevented, every ransacking, every murder, every betrayal, he had stood steadfast in his belief in the fundamental ability of humanity as a whole to still do good. And although Arcade had been disappointed endlessly by individuals and organizations, especially the Enclave itself, the Courier had never given him cause to question his idealism. But even so, Arcade had spent too much time defining himself through the lens of the Courier, too quickly. He wouldn’t be able to do that anymore—wouldn’t be able to call himself a Follower, either—and somehow that cutting of ties began to seem freeing, thrilling, rather than something to despair.

“You don’t owe me an apology,” Arcade said softly, feeling more certain now than he ever had, more certain even than when he had resolved to fight alongside the Remnants, the NCR, and the Courier at Hoover Dam.

“Yes, I do, Doc,” the Courier protested, sitting up.

Arcade shook his head. “No, you don’t. What I did, I did knowingly. I made my own decisions, predicated on what I felt was the right thing to do at the time. The just thing. I still feel I was right, even though the repercussions of my actions would have me believe otherwise.” He flashed a small smile as he reached out and traced his fingertips lightly over the Courier’s shoulder. “You know, for a moment there I thought I knew whether my father would have been proud of me.”

“Well?” the Courier asked, doing a poor job at masking his concern at the turn the conversation had taken.

“I think…” Arcade tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling of the Vertibird, sparing a thought for what sort of decisions may have been made in this cockpit in ages past. “I think that he would have believed that the more important question would be whether I was proud of myself.”

The Courier waited for Arcade to continue, eyes wary.

“And I am proud,” Arcade admitted, even with apprehension still fluttering in his chest. “Whatever they did before, whatever will happen next, the Enclave Remnants did something truly good at the Dam. Something important, that I helped orchestrate. And the NCR can’t take that away from me, no matter what else they do.” He sat up, legs dangling over the edge of the Vertibird’s control console. “I am proud.”

The Courier was silent for a moment, scooting closer to Arcade. He bumped their shoulders together, his features schooled into his most serious expression. “Well,” the Courier slowly, “that certainly makes one of us.” He broke out into a roguish grin Arcade knew well.

Arcade barked a surprised laugh and shoved at the Courier, feeling nearly at ease for the first time since Legate Lanius had been driven from Hoover Dam.

“Now come on, take that off,” the Courier said lightly, tugging at Arcade’s wrinkled pants.

Arcade’s eyebrows rose. “I know we just had a life-affirming moment here, and the NCR trusts you enough to send you off alone, but I doubt we have that kind of time.”

The Courier smirked and pecked Arcade quickly on the lips. “Oh, Doc. You don’t know everything all the time.” He ducked out of the hatch door to grab a stuffed duffle bag he must have dropped before he entered Vertibird. He toed off his boots and shucked his well-worn jeans—Arcade’s eyebrows shot up appreciatively despite his previous insistence that they didn’t have the time for any further diversions—and traded them for Arcade’s own slacks, along with his t-shirt from the floor and a canvas jacket he pulled from the bag.

“Put those on,” he commanded, rummaging in the bag for a second brown leather boot that matched the one in his hand.

“Where did you get this?” Arcade asked, pulling a couple of .308 rounds from the pocket of the olive jacket as he shrugged it on. The sleeves were a bit short and it smelled a little like rotten agave.

The Courier grabbed his dusty cowboy hat from where it had fallen behind the co-pilot’s chair earlier and plunked it on Arcade’s head with a grin. “Took that from Boone. Don’t think he’ll miss it.” He flicked the brim of his hat. “I’m going to be wantin’ this back, though, Doc.”

“I’m sure I look moronic.”

“Eh, you’ve dressed better,” the Courier said as he tugged on Arcade’s discarded shirt. “But the NCR’s not looking for a moron, they’re looking for a fancy Old World-educated doctor without the good sense to play dumb every once in a while.”

He took a step closer and tapped the frame of Arcade’s glasses. “How well can you see without these?” Arcade considered the question for a moment, wondering if seeing the world through blurry eyes would make him seem like less of a threat to the average bounty hunter or NCR ranger he might encounter, before the Courier’s expression wavered slightly and his smile broke through. Of course he was mocking him.

Arcade swatted the Courier’s hand away from his glasses with a low chuckle. “Fuck you.”

The Courier gave an exaggerated grimace. “I wish. But like you said, no time.” He grabbed at his duffle, rifling through it some more. “But that’s a good touch, Doc. More cursing, less Latin and acting like everyone else is unspeakably dumber than you are.”

“What would you have done if you hadn’t found me here?” Arcade asked suddenly, as the Courier pulled his canteen and what appeared to be an odd assortment of wrapped foodstuffs from the bag. “What if I hadn’t stopped here and was already beyond the border by the time you arrived?”

The Courier stopped in his searching, still holding the bag and the gear. “Honestly?” The Courier sounded more serious than Arcade had almost ever heard him.

“Yes,” Arcade said simply, drawing up to his full height.

The Courier nodded and scratched at his stubbled chin, glancing around the Vertibird. “Honestly…probably would’ve jerked off and cried.”

Arcade burst out laughing, thinking how he would miss the Courier and his outrageous sense of humor that had so often driven Veronica to irritation and had left Cass and Raul breathless with laughter. The Courier had to hold Arcade up, laughing as well, as he doubled over, his eyes watering.

The Courier settled down slightly and pointed a thumb at the Vertibird around them. “Seriously, though, Doc. When we were here meeting with the Remnants and I saw this ‘bird…Wow. I gave some serious thought to whether we could fuck in here without Daisy and ‘em knowing.”

“Oh my God,” Arcade groaned, still chuckling. “I’m glad you didn’t say anything to me at the time.”

“Wouldn’t have been able to look them in the eye next you saw ‘em?” the Courier asked, patting Arcade on the shoulder.

“No, I probably would have agreed,” Arcade said with a coy smirk, pleased at the Courier’s own bark of shocked laughter.

“Okay, okay,” the Courier said quickly, striding over to where they had dropped their guns on the dropship’s seats earlier. “We need to get serious or you’re never getting outta here.”

Arcade shook his head—as if Arcade was the one causing the delay in his own inauspicious flight from the Mojave—and shifted the Courier’s hat around, trying vainly to settle it on his head in the least ridiculous fashion. He froze when the Courier turned and offered him both his own Plasma Defender and the Courier’s coveted 9mm pistol. “This was Benny’s,” he said slowly, running his hands over the lavishly decorated ivory grip.

“Yep,” the Courier agreed blithely, hands on his hips.

“You love this gun,” Arcade insisted. It was true; the only weapon the Courier spent more time painstakingly maintaining was the battered service rifle he had recovered from the Zion Valley.

“Yeah, well…I have other guns.” The Courier shrugged and glanced around the interior of the Vertibird, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, then the Courier cleared his throat. “That gun put me in the ground, then helped me fight my way to the top. Figure you could use a little of the same kinda luck.”

“Thanks,” Arcade said dumbly, as he tucked the gun away on his hip, his right hand coming to rest on the butt of the grip.

“Yeah,” the Courier said with a dismissive wave, still avoiding eye contact as he picked up his Vault 13 canteen, a combat knife, and the lumpy bundle of food and shoved them into Arcade’s arms. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Arcade repeated, a bit less gratefully than just a moment ago. “What am I supposed to do with all of this exactly?” He shifted the objects around in his arms, trying not to lose his grip on the canteen.

When he looked up again, the Courier was holding out his weathered and oft-repaired messenger bag, the worn design of a flying envelope and the letters ‘AVE EXPRES’ still partially visible on the front. Arcade could make out the neat stitches he had applied to a tear in the flap just a few months ago, standing out amidst the more sprawling patch jobs the Courier had done himself over the years.

“I can’t take that from you,” Arcade insisted.

“Well, I’m giving it,” the Courier said, stepping closer and placing the cross-body strap over Arcade’s head. He tugged the items he handed to Arcade out of his arms and stuffed them in the bag, running a hand over the strap where it lay across his heart. “It belonged to someone important to me, and now it still does,” he said quietly, looking up into Arcade’s eyes.

Arcade tugged the Courier by the front of his own former shirt and pressed their foreheads together, sending the Courier’s hat tumbling off Arcade’s head as they shared a brief kiss. “I’ll take good care of it,” he whispered against his lips.

“Yeah,” the Courier said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, scooping his hat back off the Vertibird floor. “But remember, Doc, it’s the hat that I really want back in one piece.” After a moment the Courier stepped back and squeezed Arcade’s shoulders lightly. “Just got a few more things for you,” he said, turning to dig yet more equipment from his duffle.

Arcade held the mailbag open patiently as the Courier packed it with ammunition—both traditional rounds and energy cells—and medical goods—stimpaks and Radaway mostly. Arcade watched the Courier as he tried and failed to maintain his usual air of easy nonchalance. He would miss this man, truly; he would even miss the cruel desert that had brought them together. He spared a second to wonder if he would ever find someone else who would make him feel this at ease, this comfortable with who he was and who he would choose to be. But even with his eminent departure drawing near, he could not regret the actions that had brought them here.

“For the future,” the Courier said as he tucked away the last of his supplies, aiming for playful and missing by a Mojave mile, “when tryin’ to elude someone’s pursuit, it’s best not to go directly to your last known whereabouts.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Arcade replied, just about as successfully casual as the Courier. He reached out and his hand brushed against the back of the Courier’s. “I guess this is goodbye,” he said, appallingly maudlin.

“Yeah, for now,” Courier agreed with a sigh. When Arcade said nothing further, he frowned. “You’ll come back when it’s time, though.” Not a question.

“Time for what?” Arcade adjusted the strap of the mailbag on his shoulder. Trying to soften the blow of parting with teasing promises was all well and good, but there was a time to be comforting and a time to be realistic. “My summary execution?”

“No,” the Courier said more loudly, frown deepening. “Time when it’s safe for you to be back here.” They could both hear the words ‘with me,’ though they remained unspoken.

“When will that be, exactly?” Arcade’s tone more snappish than he would prefer, but he had already resigned himself to his exile; false hope would only complicate matters.

“Don’t know, as soon as I can make it. I don’t have a full plan yet,” he crossed his arms when Arcade looked skeptical. “But I do have some options; there are some good people in the NCR who’ll help me when I come calling.” The Courier looked hurt now. “Did you really think I came out here for a fuck and a pat on the back as you turned tail toward the sunrise?”

“No,” Arcade said quickly, holding the Courier gently by his shoulders. “I’ve never doubted your ability to accomplish a task through sheer force of will. And I do believe that you’ll work your hardest to try to change the hearts and minds of the NCR brass. But I don’t think that will be enough this time, not with the NCR needing to establish firm control over the region.” He thumbed at the collar of the Courier’s shirt and smiled sadly. “Occasionally even you must realize when something is beyond your capabilities.”

“I dunno,” the Courier said quietly, expression softening as he rested his hands on Arcade’s hips. “I sent ghouls to the moon.”

Arcade huffed a laugh and leaned into the Courier’s embrace. He would miss this man. “You did, in fact.”

The Courier rubbed one hand down Arcade’s spine. “I’m going to make it safe for you to come back, Doc.”

Arcade didn’t frown and ask: what if I’m already dead by then, what if I’ve moved on, what if you’ve moved on? What if the future already holds something better than today without further bloodshed? What he did instead was press his face more firmly against the Courier’s neck, hat askew, and gently murmur, “And how exactly am I supposed to know to return when this time comes?”

The Courier smiled and held him at arm’s length, the expression only a little soured by their need to part. “I’m a courier, remember? I’ll send you a letter.”

Arcade smiled affectionately, thumb trailing at the stubble on the Courier’s jaw as he kissed him once, firmly, a goodbye. “I’ll make sure to check my mail, then.”

The Courier nodded and smiled, throat tight, as he pulled his rifle out of the duffle and hefted them both, one on either shoulder.

Arcade gave the interior of the Vertibird a quick look around. Arcade’s old Followers lab coat lay haphazardly on the console where he had placed it; they left nothing else but dusty, halfway operational components in their wake. He turned to exit when the Courier coughed behind him.

He was staring down at his boots, looking uncomfortable and small in Arcade’s old button-down and slacks. He glanced up at Arcade, a glint of hope in his eyes. “Hey, Doc, I—”

“Wait,” Arcade said simply, stepping back to place a steady hand on the Courier’s shoulder. “Why don’t you save that thought for when I come to return your hat, alright?”

The Courier laughed roughly and nodded, laying his own hand over Arcade’s on his shoulder and squeezing. “Yeah, okay.”

Arcade squeezed back and smiled. “You’d better get Veronica or someone to help you write that letter. I’m expecting a poetic epic.”

The Courier gave a more genuine chuckle and said, “You got it, Doc.”

Neither of them said anything more, just stood there, hands clasped for a few moments before Arcade turned to descend the steps of the Vertibird and leave the Enclave Remnants bunker. When he stepped out into the fading Mojave sunlight, one hand gripping the strap of the Courier’s mailbag, the other on the 9mm pistol at his hip, he lifted his face to the sky and exhaled deeply before heading east. “ _Respice, adspice, prospice_ ,” he murmured, feeling more hopeful than he could have imagined a day or even an hour ago. There were places other than the Mojave where people would need help, where Arcade could provide aid, no matter what form that might take. His life had not ended just yet. And, at the very least, Arcade knew as he set out from the bunker, the NCR would not be the only one trying to find him again.

**Author's Note:**

>  _respice adspice prospice_ : “look behind, look here, look ahead”
> 
> Fun fact! I didn’t realize how horribly the NCR ending would turn out for Arcade until I had already committed to it. Thanks, Obsidian.
> 
> Written for this prompt on the Fallout Kink Meme: http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=14941139#t14941139


End file.
